Blindspot
by wow-owls
Summary: Sherlock is suffering from amnesia; every morning when he wakes, his memories have been wiped. He begins keeping a vlog to try and sort his life into a logical narrative. John is the only one who has stuck by, but is he telling Sherlock the whole story?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N The idea for this story was mostly inspired by 50 First Dates. Yes, I have classy taste in films. Although, this is a bit angstier than the film was, I just used the basic idea of amnesia. I've planned the first nine chapters, and in the end I think I'm aiming for about 18 chapters, though it could be shorter or longer. Anyway, I hope you enjoy :3 I've never published a Sherlock fanfic before, so my characterisation might be a little off. Feel free to rip me to shreds for it! Also, it is written as if it is a vlog. Although it's basically a story narrative, anything within square brackets is sort of 'stage directions' of what Sherlock is up to as he vlogs.  
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><p>[Sherlock's bedroom at 221b. The light coming through the window is weak and grey, but a lamp on the bedside table lights Sherlock's face from the side. He is sitting in sitting cross-legged in bed, his laptop resting on a pillow in front of him. He looks uncharacteristically ruffled, and he repeatedly brushes his index finger across his nose as if in a nervous tic. He speaks directly to the webcam.]<p>

"When I woke up this morning, I had no idea where I was. I wasn't entirely surprised; it happens. I assumed that I'd taken too much cocaine and gone home with a stranger. So I got out of bed, thinking I would just slip out quietly, but my body was… not my own. It felt _bigger_ than it should, and I was aching. Not in a painful way, just in a way that let me know I was older than I should be. It's difficult to explain the sensation, unless you have ever aged two decades in a single night. If I had been a little less disorientated, I wouldn't have, but I… hmm. I should have said earlier, I am forty years old. When I woke, I thought I was twenty. I was surprised at the difference twenty years made in my body. Anyone would be. It is not a failing on my part.

As it was, I panicked. I was making a lot of noise, which is when John came in. He heard the racket I had been making and wanted to make sure I was okay. I didn't recognise him, but he told me that we've been flatmates for five and a half years now, and we live at 221b Baker Street. He told me I have amnesia. It hasn't just affected my long term memory, or just my short term, but both. So not only can I not remember a great deal of my past, I can't begin building new memories. It seems that I forget everything when I fall asleep. Some days, I remember most of my life, and I've only lost a few years. Some days it's worse. This morning is one of the worst I've had, according to John. I don't usually go right the way back to my university-aged mind.

[His tone is light, analytical, but he shifts uncomfortably in a manner that suggests he is more unsettled by his situation than he is saying.]

I'm not sure if I believe John. Why should I? I've never seen him before in my life, as far as I know. I told him that, and he was clearly upset. At the same time, I think I do trust him. Not just because what he says sounds true, I just have a feeling, in my gut. That's why I'm unsure as to whether I believe him. I never pay attention to my gut instincts, I analyse things, pay attention to facts. I don't have facts to go on now, though. I asked him for proof that what he said was true, and he told me things. It didn't help. He claims to have only known me since we became flatmates, and I can't remember anything that's happened in those years. I would be sure I was twenty if my body didn't deny the fact. He could tell me things about my past, too, but nothing that couldn't be found out through a little research.

However, I have little choice but to trust him. There isn't anyone else, and clearly I can't trust my own amnesiac brain any more.

[The pain is evident in Sherlock's voice, as he has lost the thing he thought was most valuable to him- his mind. He sits back on his heels, still running his finger along his nose every so often.]

After he had convinced me, he told me a little more about my day to day life. _Our _day to day lives, actually. John doesn't work. He used to be an army doctor, or a GP, I forget. After my amnesia set in, Mycroft convinced him to stop working and be my live-in carer, and he covers all of our costs. Probably the only useful thing he'll ever do.

I got really cross at that, though. As if I need _babying_. I'm hardly going to drown in the bath or leave the oven on; I have amnesia, I'm not a moron. I told John that, or rather, I shouted it at him. He laughed, and it was a hollow sort of laugh.

"You have no idea," he said, "how similar your twenty year old mind is to your forty year old mind. You're still petulant. God, I could never even convince you to go to a doctor unless something had actually shrivelled up and fallen off,"

"You're right, I don't have any idea," I said coldly. He probably wasn't intentionally trying to taunt my condition, but he had succeeded anyway. I wanted to take the high road and walk away, but I couldn't. I stayed, and I shouted at him. I can't remember what I said. I'm not proud of it. On a logical level, I know I should be nice to him, given that he's still here trying to help me. He could have just left me in a hospital. But I lashed out; it was more or less instinctive.

He didn't seem all that upset. He _did_ take the high road, and he remained calm and accepted my shouting. Maybe he's used to it. Maybe I shout at him most days, I wouldn't know. He seemed to understand, at any rate, that all I needed was for him to leave me alone. He went and sat in the kitchen- obviously he doesn't trust me enough to leave me alone entirely- and let me burn off steam. I wanted my punching-bag, but apparently I don't box any more. Interesting how much changes when you grow up.

In the end, I paced about until I formulated an idea. Attacking problems with a cerebral mindset always helps me to centre myself and control any emotions. I went to John and told him I wanted to start keeping a journal, where I would write down everything I had discovered about myself that day. I thought that perhaps it could help me regain my memories somehow, if there was a physical representation of what I should be remembering, and I could read over the journal each morning and remind myself of the facts. I trust myself much more than I trust John.

He initially seemed uncertain, but he couldn't think of a good reason that I shouldn't, and he agreed that it couldn't hurt to see if it might bring back some of my memories, or help me build new ones that last. He suggested that keeping a video diary might be easier, as I always think faster than I can speak, but I still speak faster than I can write. This way should be less frustrating for me. Because my mind is locked in the nineties, I wasn't sure what a 'video diary' actually meant, but John showed me my laptop, which has a tiny camera built into it, which can record me. It's fascinating, really. This technology is so much more advanced than I am used to.

When he was showing me what buttons to press and so on, it occurred to me that I didn't know why I had amnesia. Stupid of me not to think of it before. I asked John, and he got a pained look on his face.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked. What a ridiculous question, of course I want to know. If he had lost years of his life in a single night, I'm positive he would like to know what had happened. He really didn't want to tell me, and I have no idea why. It isn't as bad as it could be. I pestered him until he relented.

"Fine. Fine, you win, you enormous bloody five year old. Before the accident, you were a consulting detective. It's a job you made up- how was it you explained it to me? 'When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me'. You go to crime scenes and deduce things, tell them what happened and who to arrest. There was one man in particularly, DI Lestrade…"

He looked at me expectantly, obviously wondering if I remembered him at all. I shook my head. Of course I don't remember him.

"Anyway, you helped Lestrade out on a fair few crimes. He was one of your friends. Well, in the limited extent to which the word 'friend' applies to you. Though he wasn't really involved with what happened to you. Does the name 'Moriarty' ring any bells?"

"No, nothing," I replied. It had absolutely no effect on me, but judging by John's face I should have felt something.

"You once described him as the Napoleon of crime. He's a criminal mastermind, and he was connected to a lot of the crimes that you solved. He's a genius, an absolute genius, and he's probably the only person that could ever outsmart you. Well, apart from… your brother," the pause he gave before saying 'brother' made me vaguely think there was someone else, but I was more interested in finding out about my amnesia. I will ask John tomorrow, who this other person is.

"You being you, you had to beat him. Couldn't stand that he was as clever as you. So you threw yourself into chasing him, and you had a few encounters. He took some sick sort of pleasure in the chase, and there was a big confrontation in the end. There's a hospital, you used to go there to do experiments, St Bart's. We were there, he tricked me into leaving, and you went up to the rooftop to meet Moriarty. Nobody knows what happened up there, not really. When the police went up there, they found Moriarty's corpse. He had shot himself. When I realised that I'd been tricked, I came back to the hospital, but you were already standing on the edge of the roof. You phoned me- we have mobile phones now, you can use them anywhere- and you said… well, you said a lot of things. You told me you were sorry, you were a fake, and everything was an act. You said the call was your note. You said goodbye, and you jumped.

By all rights, you should have died. When I reached you, your head was smashed, and you were in a pool of blood. You _looked_ dead. But by some miracle, maybe the way you'd landed, you were alive, just. You were in a coma for weeks, and when you regained consciousness, you couldn't remember anything, not even your name. Severe head trauma can cause memory loss, so nobody was too surprised. Eventually, things started coming back to you, you kept getting better, until we were at the point when you could come home with me. Now, every morning you wake up and I come through and explain all of this to you."

When he finished speaking, John was a little out of breath and his hands were shaking. He obviously didn't like telling me this story, and he had to tell it again every day. I didn't feel much. I couldn't connect that story to my own life, so it didn't really have an effect on me. The only thing I feel about it, even now, is disappointment. I have always been manic at times, but I never thought I would actually become suicidal. There is also a faint tinge of curiosity, as to what happened on the rooftop. Presumably Moriarty killed himself, and then I jumped; why? I had thought John was finished, but suddenly he started speaking again.

"One time, only a few weeks after we moved in here, we met Moriarty. He had me kidnapped; you met at a swimming pool at midnight. It was the first time you had ever met him properly, face to face. He told you that if you didn't leave him alone, he would burn the heart out of you. I didn't know what he meant at the time- well, I thought he meant something else- but now… I think he has. You depended so much on your brain; it might as well have been your heart. He's hurt you in the worst way possible, and sometimes you don't even seem to know how broken you are,"

It was at this point that I decided my gut instinct had been right, and I could trust John. He told me the brutal truth, didn't hide the fact that my life now is not a whole one. I liked that about him. Whether he knew to do it because he really has been my flatmate for years, or because he was an honest person, I can't be sure, but either way, I think he will tell me the truth. What I didn't like was the look in his eyes: when he was talking about how hurt I was, he looked really devastated inside. I make a point of not getting too close to people. Why had I let this man in to my life?

[He purses his lips and sits contemplatively, allowing all that he has learned today to settle into his mind. By the time he has gotten used to the idea, he will fall asleep and have to start again in the morning. He is fully aware of this, and the thought perturbs him.]

To conclude: my name is Sherlock Holmes. I am forty years old, and I am suffering from amnesia. Every morning, John will remind me of this video diary and so I can watch over what I have been doing, and in that way I can begin building my narrative, as opposed to living each day individually. That would be hopelessly dull."

[Sherlock studies the laptop with his usual cold, systematic eye. He brushes his finger once more across his nose before he reaches forward and taps a button. Fade to black.]


	2. Chapter 2

[Sherlock is on the floor, his back resting on a bed and his laptop balanced on his knees. Behind him, John is asleep; this much is obvious from the slow rising of his chest and the deep sound of his breathing. Sherlock speaks in a very low voice into the webcam, evidently trying not to wake John.]

"I had a fit this morning. I woke up very suddenly, probably early thirties, which was in the depth of my cocaine addiction. I felt like I was having terrible withdrawal, which I realise is ridiculous; withdrawal is partly physical, so I shouldn't have felt it. But then, it was probably psychosomatic. My body expected it because my brain told it I hadn't had cocaine in too long.

I shot out of bed, knocked over my bedside table. When I was still using, I had cut a hole in my mattress and created a small space where you could fit the bags, so I was on my knees tearing the bed sheets off, determined to get some, but I found that it had been sewn up.

By that time, John had heard that I was awake and he came to check on me. I didn't recognise him, of course, and I was convinced that he was a policeman come to arrest me for possession. Cocaine induced paranoia, completely ridiculous. Fortunately, I was in such a confused state that he was able to force me back into bed and be quiet long enough to make me listen to him. He brought me my laptop and said that I had a video on it that would explain everything. It did do that, but it didn't actually help.

Just because my mind knows that I have amnesia and haven't touched the drugs in a while doesn't mean that my body knows that. So I've spent the entire day being somewhat torn in two, my body telling me I need cocaine _immediately _and my mind telling me how stupid that is."

[John lets out a grunt and rolls over. Sherlock glances over his shoulder at him before he slides the laptop onto the bed. He stands with a grunt, picks the laptop up and takes it to the kitchen, where he rests it on the table and resettles himself on a chair. He now resumes talking at a more normal volume.]

"Better. Initially, John didn't want to leave me by myself. I nearly shouted at him, telling him I didn't need to be babied, but then I thought about the video I recorded, and realised we had that argument yesterday. It makes me wonder how repetitive his life is now. Do I say the same things, have the same arguments, every day?

Eventually I convinced him that I needed a shower and a bit of time to myself to sort things out in my head. Not that I needed to sort my head out- I've seen the video, I know precisely what is happening. But somehow, I don't think John accepts my hygiene as a reasonable reason to be out from under his supervision, so I had to speak to him on a level that he understood. He probably thinks I'm not as intelligent as I used to be now that I have amnesia, but I know that it isn't holding me back.

As John so kindly pointed out yesterday, I haven't changed much in the past twenty years, and I never forget more than that, so I still retain the thought processes that make me myself. Most cases don't take more than a day to solve, so I don't really see why I shouldn't return to working as a consulting detective. I'd like to continue this video diary for a little longer before I make any decisions, though. No sense rushing back to work if there's potentially a reason I shouldn't. In a week or two, I think I should have reconstructed enough of my story for me to make an informed decision."

[He pauses, picks up a dirty mug from the table and toys with it. He takes in a breath as though about to speak several times, but closes his mouth quickly and glares at the mug. Eventually he puts it down firmly and looks directly at the camera, intent on getting his story across fully.]

"I've been upset today. Not something I do often- as I said yesterday, I make a point of keeping myself above emotions. This situation is unusual though- twofold damage, really. I'm unstable because I think I'm addicted to cocaine and I'm uncertain because I'm amnesiac. It only makes sense that I would be a little more volatile than usual. John told me that he'd only ever seen me in a state like that once before: apparently we were in Devon after some hellhound, interesting case, but it isn't important right now. The point is, I saw something I knew logically couldn't exist, and it drove me to panic. Not quite the same situation, but I think I'm justified in experiencing a heightened emotional state in both instances.

Because of the state I've been in, John insisted I couldn't do anything useful today. He's spent hours trying to 'comfort me', which has been bizarre in the extreme. I didn't like to tell him how odd it was, because I believe a lot of the things he did were things he did to comfort me in the years I'm missing, and they are working. For example: he made me sit down and watch a James Bond film with him.

I've always objected to watching Bond films; ridiculous spy thrillers that are all action and no substance. There is nothing _stimulating _about them. But John assures me that he did once succeed in making me sit down and watch several at once with him. I felt calmer after the film had finished, but it must be to do with the fact that my brain was shutting down from boredom, because I find it difficult to believe that John was entirely honest about us watching these films. He probably just wanted an excuse to watch them again.

Amongst John's bizarre calming-down techniques, we also explored my mind palace- and by that, I mean I explored it while he watched. He wanted to see if I had retained memories there, but it is in the state it should be if I was in my early thirties. We did an experiment on some of the sausages in the fridge, we sent inflammatory texts to Mycroft…

It felt like John was distracting me. In retrospect, he definitely was, but it was from my addiction. At the time, I thought it was from finding out about my past, and I wanted to test him. Yesterday, when he was explaining about Moriarty, he was talking about people that were cleverer than me and he definitely avoided mentioning someone, and I asked him about it, determined to see if he would lie.

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" He said, laughing, "Of course you wouldn't let amnesia get in the way of your genius. I never could hide things from you,"

"So, who were you talking about? Who is this third person that can outsmart me?" I pressed. He seemed to be dodging the question, but I wasn't going to let him keep distracting me from the matter at hand. An odd look passed over his face, as if he was debating something internally. Eventually he spoke, obviously putting in a lot of effort to keep his voice level.

"Irene Adler. You always called her 'The Woman', although I never figured out if that was a mark of respect or because you hated her so much you couldn't even say her name. She beat you, kept outsmarting you. You did outsmart her in the end, sort of trampled her into the dust actually, and she ended up somewhere in the East. At the time… at the time, I told you that she went to America and got herself into a witness protection program, because I didn't know how you'd react to the truth. I suppose it doesn't matter now, you don't remember her; the truth is, she was captured by a terrorist cell and executed. Even though you beat her in the end, she played you really well; I've never seen you pay so much attention to a woman,"

I shot him a sharp look at that last comment. I hope he wasn't suggesting I had had some sort of romantic attraction to her. Romance is just a distraction, it clouds a logical mind. Whatever his implications, I had no reason to doubt what he told me, though it's hardly useful information, particularly given that the woman is dead. Of course, he wouldn't allow us to linger on the subject, so he moved swiftly on to distracting me again.

By evening I managed to overcome my body's lesser desires and the withdrawal had more or less stopped. It left my mind clearer, so I could think straight. Unfortunately, I don't have much to think about apart from my amnesia, and it began stagnating in my head. It terrified me. I will wake up every morning of my life with no idea what's happening. What about when I become truly old, and I wake thinking that I'm twenty? How could anyone cope with that?"

[A panicked edge has crept into Sherlock's voice. His pupils have shrunk and his breathing is labored. He takes a moment to reflect on what is happening, draws in a deep breath, visibly calms down. He raises a shaking hand to his brow before continuing in a somewhat bitter tone.]

"My whole life has been dedicated to the pursuit of developing my mind. A great deal of young people grow up and are upset by what they perceive to be the pointlessness of life; I never experienced that, because as far as I am concerned, the 'point' of _my_ life is very clear. I need to be moving forward, always. Now that has been taken away from me, and the pointlessness of everything has moved to the forefront of my mind. I can't have my thoughts any more. What else _is_ there? I might as well have gone mad. I wish I had gone mad- at least then I wouldn't be aware of how awful my situation is.

There was only so long I could feel that way before John noticed. When he eventually asked me what was wrong, I told him. Probably in greater detail than I should, in fact. But if he has been assigned as my _carer_ then he deserves to know what's wrong with me. He looked more upset than I felt. I don't think he can bear the thought that another person is suffering and he is unable to do anything about it. I suppose that's why he became a doctor.

I'm quite ashamed of what happened next, but it is of vital importance that I am as honest in this video diary as possible in order to build up an accurate idea of what is happening to me. I was lying in bed, when I was overwhelmed with anxiety. The only coherent thoughts I had were that I didn't want to fall asleep, and I didn't want to be alone. In the end, I got up. I intended to read a book in the living room, but then I could hear John breathing as he slept, and for some reason, I wanted to be near him. So, like some godforsaken three year old that's had a nightmare, I went into his room and crawled into bed with him, just so I could have some human contact.

He woke up, of course, and turned over blearily to look at me. He didn't seem perturbed- it's entirely possible that I do this fairly regularly, so he has come to expect this. Not a thought that particularly pleases me… anyway, I felt the need to make my position clear just in case John was unsure of my intentions.

"Too alarmed to sleep. Don't want to lose memories again, just needed to be near someone" I whispered. He nodded with his eyes still half-closed, and shuffled a bit closer to me, until we were almost touching. Initially I wasn't comfortable with the close contact, but John fell asleep again very quickly and it was more or less like having an enormous hot water bottle.

When Mycroft was younger, he got asthma attacks. They made him panic, and he couldn't breathe, and before the doctor could get to us, we had to fight to keep him breathing. Eventually Mummy discovered that the best way to keep him calm was to breathe very slowly and deeply herself, and hold Mycroft close to her. He would pick up her pattern of breathing, and it calmed him immensely.

I am neither a child nor an asthmatic, but I thought the theory might still apply. I lay very still and listened to John's breathing and tried to mimic it until eventually I matched his breaths unconsciously. We lay there for hours, and I was very relaxed. At least, my thoughts slowed down a little, and I was very warm and tired. Every time I thought I was about to drop off, my body would give a jerk and I would be wide awake again. I concluded that I wasn't going to fall asleep without chemical help, so I slid out of bed with the intention of taking some sleeping pills, when it occurred to me that I hadn't recorded a video of today, so I got my laptop- which brings today's entry to an end.

Now I am going to take these pills and, with some luck, have an adequate night's sleep. At least, as adequate as it ever will be, when I know I won't retain any memories in the morning."

[Sherlock breathes a deep sigh. He is evidently exhausted; his eyes are almost bruised-looking underneath, and his movements are sluggish and clumsy. He stands, simultaneously opening the medicine drawer behind him and reaching out a hand to end the video. Fade to black.]


End file.
